


A Shade of Gray

by jenneh



Category: Final Fantasy IV
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-23 12:15:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3767821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenneh/pseuds/jenneh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>FFIV: Cecil has died under mysterious circumstances and the newly widowed Rosa must go into hiding. When Mt. Ordeals is overrun by the undead, she uncovers a plot of dark magic and must learn how to fight without Cecil by her side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

In decades past, it was considered a mark of prestige and wealth to be able to send one's gifted child here, to Mysidia, for training in magic. It was still perfectly acceptable, however, for the bulk of any given Kingdom's mages to have been taught at their own academies. Certainly today, this has since changed, with our much more extensive knowledge of all magic arts. It's not rare to see a new student standing frozen in the Great Library's entrance, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, in complete awe of it all. This shouldn't be mistaken for boasting, as Mysidia's library is the largest collection of books on the theories and practices of magic _._

The greatest contribution of the modern thinking toward magic came from the most unlikely of places. After her death, the writings of Rosa Farrell Harvey, the forgotten widow of the famed paladin king, were found in her isolated home in Troia. She had put down to paper her knowledge of the white art, of which she was exceptionally skilled at. But most surprising was her extensive recording of a much darker subject: necromancy.

There are, of course, the typical speculations that she abandoned her training and oaths as a white mage, and turned to the evil art in her quest to revive her deceased husband. Made a widow so early on in their marriage, this rumor is easy to accept as truth, for most, with little need for further research. But records show that most that had known her as a young magess claim that her turning to necromancy is impossible, and simply out of the question.

I find it interesting, then, to look at the Magess Harvey's involvement in the second war of her generation. Very little is known about her place in the Crystal War, and even less about her actions in the unnamed war that followed. It is rumored, however, that during this second war she spent a significant amount of time behind enemy lines, presumably as a captive. Given the heavy influence of undead forces under the necromancer Marin's command, it leads me to believe that the majority of what she knew of necromancy came from this violent period in her life.

Overshadowing both her ideas of white mage and the undead, however, was the revolutionary theories she developed about the Crystals, and their interaction with our world. A new age of thinking was spawned from these, and consequently, a new era was ushered in.

It goes without saying that while Rosa Harvey's books might not fill our library walls, her ideas certainly do.

\- Mage Sellinger, Mysidian White Order.

* * *

 

_Dear Rosa,_

_Your mother tells me that anything I give to her will eventually get to you. If you and she are willing to trust whatever network of people you've set up, then so am I. There's no need to tell you that if any of these letters surfaced, I'd be hung for treason, along with a dozen others. So take caution._

_I'm begging you, please, come back. I see so much pain in your mother's eyes, and every time they bring her to the castle, for questioning, she ages ten years. It nearly kills her, to have to bite her tongue whenever she hears harsh gossip of you -- and it nearly kills me, too._

_You have support here, little Rosa. There are those in the castle, those that sit on the council bench that know damn well you had nothing to do with Cecil's death. I know people that would support you, were you to return. It's not too late ... you could still reclaim the throne for yourself, and rule as queen. Find a child, young enough to be the right age, fair-haired, pale-eyed, and male. Bring him with you, claim the boy is Cecil's son, and you fled Baron not out of guilt, but to protect the unborn child growing within you. He would be raised as a prince, and you would have the throne until you passed it over to him._

_I know you hurt. But mourning Cecil from afar, allowing yourself to become a scapegoat ... it won't help anyone, least of all him. I'm begging you, come back. Have loyalty for your country, home, and come back to make a stand for what's rightfully yours._

_-Cid_

* * *

 

(Three years after the end of the Crystal War)

Generations ago, Mt. Ordeals had been a place of holy worship. Now, though Milon had been killed years before, by a man bent on redemption, the sacred mountain still felt the shuddering effects of the Earth Fiend's sacrilegious influence: a lumbering population of undead, unholy creatures.

Hardly fit for a typical traveler, it still serves as a standard training and testing ground for Mysidia's white mages. While the main purpose of the white art is to heal and support others, there comes strained moments of confrontation when either caught alone, off guard, or when all comrades have fallen, that a white mage must use strictly defensive magic to attack. And there are always moments when the steel of a blade or bite of black magic does nothing; Mt. Ordeals and its half living creatures is a prime example. Every white mage remembers time spent in this horrid place -- at least, I know I shall never forget.

I had my testing years before, so why bother coming back here to stir up ancient ghosts -- literally? Rumors of undead creatures roaming the forest that surrounded the base of the mountain were beginning to worry the Mysidian Elder. Especially because these particular zombies weren't the typical humanoid types that fiercely guarded their home, but rather, crude, half formed zombie creations of small animals. Rats, squirrels, birds, and even a young chocobo here and there.

Having a little experience on the mountain, a wealth of holy magic at my disposal, and a quiver full of fire arrows, the Elder claimed I was the perfect candidate to go investigate. He failed to mention my most important qualification for the job was that I was greatly indebted to him.

Above all, no one would be too upset if I went missing.

The world was washed in white. Thick layers of wet snow blanketed the ground, swallowing the clawed feet of my chocobo with each unsure step he stumbled through. The whole of it should have been beautiful; an untouched, pristine winter scene, straight out of an artist's imagination. Instead, it only made me miserable and cold to look at it. The pathetic wark of the chocobo seemed to voice both our opinions.

No, that wasn't right. A second, distinct squeak of a sound came from around the next bend of the road. A warking, from another chocobo? There was a forest nest not so very far from here, so it was entirely possible that one might've strayed so far north. Strange, because the mountain tended to ward off most wildlife, but not impossible. My own bird shifted nervously beneath me, adding a hint of doubt to my reasoning. Something wasn't quite right.

The snow was nearly knee deep when I dismounted from the chocobo's back, and slid down to the ground. A tamed beast on loan from the Elder, so he didn't run off immediately when loose. Still, he warked in protest as I trudged onward, and I could almost hear his thoughts of, 'Why go looking for trouble'  
Bow in hand, and already pulling an arrow from the quiver on my back, neither of which had me prepared for what lay ahead. A slash of bright yellow, coupled around dark brown stood out in contrast against the snow. Squinting in confusion, I stepped closer, already lowering my bow. The yellow stirred, obviously hearing the crunch of footsteps, and a distinct feathered head lifted. The shape suddenly made sense: a young female chocobo, her heavy wing tossed over the unmoving lump curled against her side.

Something was still so very wrong with this. When I saw that the bird's beak was horrifically mangled, twisted to an awkward angle, I realized that she was dead. But still it moved, rising up out of the snow; her wingspread threatening, puffing feathers up to make her seem bigger, taller, and stronger. The sharp wark was a word of warning to me: stay away from what she had claimed as her nest, or be attacked.

I might've walked away then. However unusual a zombied chocobo happened to be, it wasn't any business of mine. I was here to scout out the area, and report back what I had found. It certainly wasn't my job to banish the unholy anymore -- I had long since given up the robes of a healer. I might've walked away, but any conscious decision could have made was gone when that lump behind the defensive chocobo suddenly moved, likely roused from sleep by all the noise. And what should have been a chocobo chick was in fact a boy. Ragged, filthy, shivering and his face fever bright.

I think my heart broke, that moment.

The mountain beckoned, a stark figure against the background, overshadowing all.

I must have gasped, or made some sound that the chocobo saw as a threat, because she came at me in a shrieking fury of claws and feathers, all loosely held together by a halfway rotted body. No chance to draw an arrow -- not that it would have done much good, at such a close range. I heard a distinct rip of cloth, as her beak tore through the front of my jacket. I don't remember chanting, or lowering my head to the movement of my hands. And I don't remember even having the concentration to cast, but the threads were in my hands in that next breath. Lashing out, and taking a hold of the tainted half-life in front of me.

She screamed, rotted muscle peeling away from fragile bone structure. The boy screamed too, likely startled by the display. The zombied bird collapsed into a pile of smoking carcass, and didn't move from that spot in the snow. The world became unnaturally silent, as his eyes met mine. He seemed startlingly older. I saw an old man, bent from his hard years, in that boy's face. I can't say why, but an unnatural fear bubbled up in me, and I must have look terrified. I swear I could see my own expression reflected on his calm, placid features.

No, this wasn't right. He was the child, and I was the old woman. The jump back to our proper roles happened with such an abrupt jolt that could almost tangibly felt. A mutual surprise was shared -- he looking just as startled as I felt. With another step forward on my part, he shied back, obviously torn between a growl to warn me off, and lifting an arm to cower beneath.

"Shh, there now." Everything that had happened, so far, in this soft, snow covered scene, had been wordless. Maybe that was why my voice felt raw and thick in my throat, now. "Not going to hurt you, promise." He said nothing, so I simply continued. "It's terribly cold out, don't you think? And it doesn't look like you've eaten in a bit. C'mon, now. It's not a very far trip, back to town, and then you could get warmed up and some hot food in your belly."

Skepticism touched his face, brow furrowing as he regarded me once more. Was this, perhaps, some sort of wild child that spoke no language other than that of the forest? Somehow, that didn't seem right. I swear, I could almost hear his thought process out loud. Was I lying, seconds away from attacking him once he let his guard down? Or was my promise of warmth and a meal genuine? And if I wasn't to be trusted, could he fight me off with those fever strained muscles of his? With the last being 'no', what choice did he have, really, when I settled my hands on his shoulders? He could have scratched, bitten, swung and hissed, but he only stood, quite unsteadily, with my help, and wobbled over to the anxiously waiting chocobo. I carried him more than anything else.

He was much older, and taller than I thought. A head above my own. Thank the Crystals we hadn't far to go.

It was only with the support of a Float spell that I even managed to get him up onto the chocobo's back. I felt him tense, shuddering faintly, as the magic touched him. Perhaps it was instinctive -- had he been badly hurt by another's magic before? I could imagine a rowdy group of students coming across this poor boy while venturing the forest, and a particularly vicious black mage using him as target practice and amusement. It was enough to leave me angry for the trip back.

He sat in front of me, slumped back against my chest, nearly lifeless in the circle of my arms. I reached around him to grip the chocobo reins. The healer in me recognized his slipping in and out of consciousness, silent for the entire ride, while I simply fumed at a fictitious bully.


	2. Chapter 2

_Dear Cid,_

_First, please forgive the tardiness of this letter. I've been told that Baron is carefully monitoring all imports and exports; especially letters that come in and out of the country. I imagine that despite my prompt reply, it's not likely that you'll get this in any sort of timely fashion. As for what they hope to accomplish by scrutinizing every scrap of paper that passes through their hands, I'll never know._

_Though I haven't met the young man in question, I do believe you're being far too harsh on your daughter's suitor. I'm sure he didn't mean to say that, especially at the dinner table. It sounds like you're exaggerating and perhaps overreacting a bit. The poor fellow was probably just nervous. You can cut quite the imposing figure, Cid, when you try. Give him another chance -- I'm sure she'll thank you for it._

_My niece, Penelope, is planning on staying through the colder months, and perhaps longer. She seems settled enough, though probably misses home. She wanted me to tell you that, as far as the chocobo you asked about, it apparently isn't going to lay any eggs. Infertile, it seems, sadly. And, concerning your suggestion that it sit another egg, it doesn't look like the bird will take to anything. Penelope suggests that you speak to a more experienced chocobo breeder if you're still interested in purchasing a bird with an impressive pedigree, as she's given up the business since moving to Mysidia._

_Thank you for asking about my mages. They're doing well. There's been some talk about expanding the schools, though we're still struggling to raise funds, first. There are still repairs to be done, as well. Palom and Porom are spending the winter in warmer climates, in Damcyan at King Gilbert's invitation. Despite their age, they're formidable mages, and I think it'd do well for Damcyan's trainees to learn from them, and vice versa._ __  
  
_Send my best to you and yours._

_Sincerely,_ _  
_ _Lawrence_

* * *

 

Prior to the theft of the Water Crystal, Mysidia's Crystal Room and Tower of Wishes drew mages from all over the continent for worship. After the war, however, with all eight Crystals on a distant moon, traveling farther and farther away, there was no longer a symbol of faith for the believers.

They still come to pray, sometimes, though few and far between. They walk through the Crystal Room, heads covered and eyes downcast, not daring to look at the empty fixture that once held a near-deity. Instead, they pass by, through the door to the tower. Choosing instead to offer prayers to the endlessly blue sky and rolling seas, through the open ceiling of their tower. A still standing tower -- something that couldn't be stolen away.

It made me angry, at first, to see the neglect in the Crystal Room. The tiled glass walls and ceilings, once cleaned daily to forever mirror the Crystal's beauty, were now coated thick in dust and grime. I said as much, to the Elder, wondering aloud at how the Mysidians could so easily abandon their faith at the first sign of hardship. He said it wasn't a waver in belief, but rather, but a reality too painful to consider. Who really wants the task of caring for an empty shrine? The Crystals had let what happened, happen, and their leaving was in a sense a desertion. Soon, the people would understand. But for now, they needed to look to the skies, the stars, the distant planets for answers, not a bare chamber.

Little wonder, then, that I found myself alone, in the early hours where night blends into morning. Foolishly sentimental, I know, but it felt appropriate to come here to pray for the flickering life in my room. Having slipped into unconsciousness on the ride back to Mysidia, the boy hadn't woken yet. I don't know how long he was out there, in the frigid cold, but it must have been terribly long to have developed such a stubborn fever. There were few illnesses that healing magic couldn't touch, even if it was only to encourage the body's own defenses to fight. And this... I couldn't even figure out the source of his fever, much less how to cure it. If he lived throughout the night and following day, I'd be surprised. Relieved, certainly -- but surprised nevertheless.

I was similarly surprised, then, to hear footsteps at the entrance of the Crystal Room. Head still bent in prayer, I didn't bother looking up. Likely an early worshipper, on their way to the tower, and I simply didn't have the heart to make idle conversation.

"Rosa."

That is, until I heard them speak. I reacted without thinking -- stupid, I know -- and glanced over my shoulder. A familiar voice, certainly, as it was the Elder standing there, scowling in disapproval. He didn't need to, I already realized my mistake, and winced.

"You shouldn't call me that." I said as I stood, brushing off the dust gathered up on the front of my robes.

"And you," he replied, as he started across the room toward me and the dais, " ... shouldn't respond to it. What if a Baronian soldier had seen that? You're going to get yourself killed."

I had no response, and merely looked away, feeling very much like a sulking child.

He touched my elbow, guiding me away from the altar, "Never mind that. I need to speak to you." He glanced back toward the entrance, and frowned, "But not here," nodding toward the back, "in the tower. It's early yet, no one will be there."

Under other circumstances, I might've been concerned about the impropriety of such a private meeting -- after all, what would be said about the Elder speaking alone with a young white mage? The Elder accounted for that with the brilliance of his disguise for me. Here, in Mysidia, I was simply Penelope, his sister's daughter, who had come from Fabul to help her uncle with the reconstruction of Mysidia's schools. Never mind the fact that the Elder's sister had five boys, and no daughters. Being Penelope Floberge was considerably safe than Rosa Harvey, these days.

The tower was, as he said, empty at this dark morning hour, before even the early risers came to offer their prayers to absent Crystals.

"You were supposed to scout for zombies, not bring back stray children," despite his words, there was little in way of accusation in his voice.

"I was looking, but found him instead," still, I was a bit defensive, "Did you expect me to leave him there? In the middle of winter?" I knew the answer before it was even asked, but posed the rhetorical question, regardless. The Elder was far from heartless. The war had hardened him, forced him to be pragmatic, granted, but the man who had offered redemption to a Dark Knight wouldn't turn away a freezing child, either.

Logical or not, he simply nodded to the point. "There's no one that can spare the time to care for another child, Penelope, you have to know that."

"There doesn't have to be." I said, pulling myself to a taller stance with an indrawn breath, "If he manages to survive, I'll look after him." I couldn't be too optimistic about his chance of surviving.

His face suddenly shadowed with concern, looking far too serious, even for him, "I read Cid's letter, you couldn't possibly be considering. . ."

"To have him pose as Cecil's son and claim the Baronian throne for myself?" I finished for him. I should have been angry and appalled at the near-accusation, but I didn't have the energy to fuel such draining emotions. "No, Elder. The boy I found is far too old for that, even if I wanted to disgrace Cecil's line by lying about a son."

"What will you do with him, then?" he prompted, apparently more than eager to let the former subject drop. As was I.

"Do?" I echoed, then sighing. "Pray for his health, first. And if he lives? I don't know. Find out where he's from. Find his family and return him. They're likely worried sick."

"And the zombies?"

I hesitated with the question, unsure of how to reply.

"Rosa?" For some reason, the name stung when he said it.

"The rumors are true." I hated to be the bearer of bad news, but there it was. "I found one, when I came across the boy."

"And?" By his expression -- the furrow of his brow, he looked fairly annoyed with me. I hardly blamed him, though, doling out important information piece by piece, instead of all at once, all for the sake of being squeamish.

"A chocobo." My eyes closed against the memory of it. "She was ... well, he was huddled against her, the chocobo, I mean, for warmth I imagine. She attacked me, when I came close. By the looks of it, she was protecting him."

"Protecting him?" The Elder had never looked so surprised, "Did you ever stop to consider that he might've been the very one to raise the zombies?"

"That's absurd." I had thought of it, though, and dismissed the idea even as I said as much to him, "He's a child, not a necromancer."

"How old is he, Rosa?" He didn't give me time to reply, "A child, you say? Most undiscovered children come into power at the onset of puberty."

"But necromancy--" I started to protest.

"Is a rare, dangerous power, but acts as any other magic." There was a moment of tense silence, with me staring at my feet, and the Elder, I'm sure, boring holes into my forehead with a disapproving stare.

Finally, I managed a rather subdued retort, "It's not him. He looked as terrified as I was, if not more."

"Just..." he sighed, and rubbed at his forehead with the palm of his hand. "Just promise me that you'll let me know if you find out otherwise, hmm?"  
  
It was an uneasy truce, but I smiled brightly for it. "I will."

* * *

There wasn't much to mark the passing of the next few days. The Elder tried to lure me out of my room with idle work, but finally gave up when he realized how distracted I truly was -- and utterly useless for even the simplest of tasks. Instead, he'd leave a bit of mending by my door in the morning, and return at night for what I managed to finish. This left me free to work quietly by the fire, to be close by if the boy ever did wake.

I watched him, often, through the restless fits that seemed to nearly break through the barriers of sleep. He'd thrash against the blankets that covered him, face drawn tight in a strained expression that was far too old for such a young lad. After he subsided, dragged away from the waking world, I'd pull the blankets back up over him and wonder exactly when I grew so old to think someone his age so tragically young. He had the beginning promise of a man's height, but not the frame to match; at the lanky, awkward stage of growth that most boys encounter. Thirteen, fourteen? I couldn't guess, and didn't try, but I felt ancient all the same.

The only real event of note that occurred over those quiet days didn't really happen at all. Just a singularly vivid dream that captured me so entirely there was no possible way to forget it upon waking. I was falling from some unimaginable height, and Cecil caught my hands in his strong grip. I pleaded with him not to let me go, but my fingers slipped through his, and I spiraled down into oblivion. Oddly enough, my wrists ached upon waking, but I could only imagine the Elder's reaction if I had troubled him with foolishness from dreams. It faded quickly enough, and I dismissed it as coincidence.

Finally, one not so impressive morning of the fourth day, he woke up.

 


	3. Chapter 3

_Dear Elder._  
  
Porom said I should write. She also said I have to spell right. This is the third try of my letter. I think it is a stupid idea. Because I can just tell you every thing when I get home, but she said you might miss us so I am writing anyway. Hello! Things must be pretty boring without us at home. I can't blame you if you're really bored. All the other wizards here are pretty slow but Porom said that it's not their fault and we're here to help and learn from them. I don't see what they could teach me the greatest black mage in the world but I'll stay if it means passing on my genius to future people! We were all sad about what happened to Cecil and Rosa and Gilbert wanted to go to the funeral but Baron and Damcyan aren't friends still. At least that's what he said so we couldn't go. Porom cried a lot but I didn't. Porom and Gilbert say hello. And that's all I have to write. So goodbye.  
  
-Palom, best black mage in the world!

* * *

I don't know why I expected something more climatic. Perhaps because all of Gilbert's stories started so dramatically, and in those quiet days as he slept, I had had far too much time to imagine how such a scene would play out. He might awaken yelling for a guardian who had fallen only moments before I found him, and demanding to know where he was. Darker suspicions feared an attack; some evil magic, used in stealth against me before he opened his eyes. He was young enough, I decided, to wake up crying, as well; terrified instead of angry or vengeful.

  
None of that happened. Instead, he simply pushed through the blankets, straightened up, and looked blankly at me.    
  
After a long moment of thick silence, I ventured to break it, "Hello, there."  
  
Still, nothing. His eyes darted between me, the door, and the hearth of low-lying flames.  
  
"I found you, half-dead, out in the woods. You're lucky you didn't freeze to death," I paused, long enough for him to jump in with something, perhaps gratitude or otherwise. When he remained silent, I plunged onward in the awkward narrative, "Right near the mountain, actually. You've been asleep for a few days -- that's why your limbs feel so heavy. For a while there, I thought we'd lose you to that terrible fever, but you're perfectly fine now." Another pause, offering him a smile in break of words, and when he still said nothing -- "Are you mute, boy?"   
  
"No."  He said, finally, his voice small. He shifted where he sat, then reflexively stretched his arms.  
  
"Why were you out there? By yourself?" I asked.  
  
He stiffened, his spine straight and shoulders pulled back, and fell back to his preferred method of simply not answering. I read fear in dark eyes; in his slow, unsteady breaths. My heart ached for this poor, lost little boy, who experienced something so terrible he could not speak of it. But it was more than just sympathy, I knew too well the desire to pretend that bad things never happened.  
  
"Well," I said slowly, watching him watch me as I sat on the edge of the bed, "This happens far more often than most people realize."   
  
"It does?" His skepticism was plain in his voice.  
  
"Oh, yes. After every major war. The men are sent off to battle, and too many of them never return. The breadwinners of the family -- fathers, husbands, brothers -- all killed, leaving their families to struggle without them. So, boys like yourself are turned out, sent off into the world on their own, in the hope that they can make it on their own, leaving their mothers with one less mouth to feed." I reached over, patting his hand, "The Crystal War was no different. Orphans still turn up all over the place."   


He stared at our joined hands for a long moment, and when he looked up again, the wariness had eased from his dark eyes.

I released his hands and leaned back, smiling. "You wouldn't be the first person to come to Mysidia looking for a clean start," I offered, quietly; too honestly. "So, is that it? Were you sent off by your mother, to make it on your own because she didn't have the means to feed and house you any longer? There's no shame in the truth."  
  
It was such an easy lie, we both knew it. He wouldn't be the first person to come Mysidia on the pretense of a lie, either, and I think he knew that too. He stared back at his hands, probably considering the options before him, and then nodded.  
  
"Yes?" I prompted, and he nodded more empathetically, "Well, then, hardly your fault. You'll feel better once we've gotten a full meal in your belly, and then, after that, we'll worry about getting you back on your feet, hm?" I stood, with the intent of leaving to fetch him just that then hesitated, "I didn't get your name." Extending my hand in offer of a handshake, "I'm Penelope, the town elder's niece."  
  
He remained still, not taking my extended hand. Did he recognize that as a lie, as well? There was a strange wisdom in his dark eyes that belied his young face. He finally gripped my hand with a squeeze, replying with, "I'm Galen."   
  
Galen and Penelope, both with false names and false histories. It was an interesting start, to say the least.  
  


* * *

The Elder was less than pleased with my wish to take in a stray. 

Ensconced in the privacy of the Elder's study, he sat by the hearth, an open book on his lap, while I paced the length of the small room.

"Where would you send him, then? Back out into the woods, to freeze and starve to death?"  I asked, letting more bite in my tone than I had intended.

"Oh, do not be dramatic," he huffed, pinning a glare on me; his book forgotten with a sudden snap of its covers, "He's bound to be from one of the small townships south of Mt. Ordeal's woods." 

"From a town and family that don't want him, apparently. You'd waste the time and energy searching for that? He's alone. Just like I was, when I came to you. You didn't turn me away." 

The argument died on his face, "Is that what this is? A pet project, to help someone when you couldn't help yourself?" 

"I don't know," I answered, honestly enough. My pacing stopped, I turned to face the Elder, my hands still at my sides, "I'm not asking for charity. He'll work for his keep, the same as I do. He's young, he'll bounce back from this sickness quickly enough. We'll need the labor, come spring, to help with the construction. A strong back and extra pair of hands is more of use to you than yet another fragile mage."

"Don't get ahead of yourself," but despite his words, he sighed in concession, "We'll see how the winter goes, first. If he's not too much trouble, then he can stay. And." there was a definite pause, his brow knitted in concern, "And, in exchange, I want you to look again, around the mountain, for zombies and the source."

"But Lawrence..." The use of the Elder's given name seemed a better way to protest. My heart went heavy with sudden dread at the mention of Mt. Ordeals.

"Do this for me, Rosa," somehow it was more powerful when he said my name, as if invoking the old naming magic. I realized then he held my life in his hands, guarding my real name. "Find and eliminate the cause of the roaming undead in the forest, and you can have as many orphans as you want. That's all I'm asking of you." 

How could I refuse, for all that he, and Mysidia, had done for me? I nodded.

"Good. And besides, the sooner we find out that this boy of yours isn't the necromancer behind it, the sooner I can stop suspecting him," he said, likely in jest, dismissing with me the silent gesture of opening his book once more.

All I could manage was a weak smile as I left, wordlessly, not sure if I had won or lost the exchange.

* * *

  
The next couple of days were rocky. Galen watched me with the guarded caution of a caged animal. He ate tentatively, as if I would snatch his food away for the moment he paused to breathe between bites. But, as the days slowly progressed into a week, then two, I think he finally figured out that I wasn't going to suddenly pounce and shake some truth from him. He relaxed. We fell into a comfortable existence after that.  
  
By Mysidian standards, Galen was quite plain and boring. He wasn't a mage, nor a merchant dealing in magical items. In city whose main trade is magic, that can be quite the crime. But I liked him well enough. He was just shy and quiet enough to be sweet when he fumbled for words. I took a sort of motherly pride when he finally found his voice and confidence, and was able to speak to me without hesitating.  
  
The Elder kept a skeptical eye on him, whenever he was nearby, still worried that Galen was the source of our undead attacks. It was simply a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, I told the Elder. Although he said nothing more about it, the suspicion never left his eyes when he looked Galen's way.  
  
There was certainly enough work to go around, and that kept us busy. Despite the restriction of the winter weather, there were plenty of things to be done indoors. Most of my days had me bent over a number of books, copying pages of passages onto fresh rolls of parchment. So many of the older tomes were fragile and crumbling -- too delicate to be in the hands of careless students.   
  
Galen's penmanship left much to be desired, however, so his tasks were divided between hauling stacks of books from one point to another, assisting with interior repairs of the few standing buildings, and similar physical chores. He never complained, and the manual labor, fresh air, and regular meals put a healthy weight on his lean frame.

We spoke of minor events, like the progress on the new Grand Library, how smelly the old chocobo barn had gotten over years of abandonment, and how the expansion on the back of the House of Wishes made our quarters draftier than usual.

As long as I kept busy enough, I never had time to let my mind wander to the outside world. The winter passed in a blissful vacuum, independent of the whirlwind of events happening in other countries and kingdoms.

* * *

 

One late winter evening, Galen sat at our small table, myself beside the room's small hearth. Galen stared toward the fire, as was his habit when he was idle. I watched him for a few minutes, and something in his blank, unending stare made me uncomfortable enough to suddenly speak up, "Why do you not spend time with the other children?"

His stare broke, blinking suddenly as if startled, and he looked to me. "Because I am not a child." There was no sulk in his voice, simply matter of fact.

"You are _young_ ," I offered as a compromise, "And there are other young people. When you're not doing chores, you should seek them out."

He frowned at that suggestion, " _You_ are my age, Penny. Why do you pretend that you are a wrinkled old crone whose life has passed? You are so much younger than your words."

I felt endlessly old at his earnestness; felt every battlefield-earned wound, every bruise, every tired ache in my fingers after too many hours with a drawn bow. "You never told me your age." Or anything about himself. Our lives before Mysidia were not a common conversation topic.

"Fifteen." He said, and suddenly stretched his arms and legs as to prove that his size matched his age. My surprise must have been written plainly on my face, because he scowled; his eyes strangely angry in a way I had never seen before. "I am a man, you know."

I laughed, to break the tension, and rose from my seat beside the hearth. "Fifteen is not yet a man. I am. . ." I paused to do the quick calculation, "Seven years your elder. That is nearly a decade. You should keep peace in your tone when speaking to such an old woman." But there was a smile behind my words, enough that his frown relaxed way and he smiled back as I sat at the table, across from him.

"Seven years is not so much of a difference." He was quieter now, and began fiddling with his hands to distract himself, and he seemed all the more little boy to me again, "Not much at all."

"It is." I said simply. "It is enough." I saw him open his mouth to protest, but I quickly offered, "Cards? The night it too still for reading and staring or even heavy conversation."

He considered me for a short moment, and mercifully nodded, letting the topic die. He stood, on longer legs than I had realized, and found him much different than the starving, half dead orphan I had found weeks before. He had a man's height, true, but his shirt sagged on thin shoulders. He might call himself a man, but he still had much growing to do.

Galen sat back down with the cards, and began shuffling the deck, "Marin did speak to me today."

"Marin? Why would Marin speak with you?"

"He was actually asking about you, Penny. About your studies, about your old chocobo stable. He wants to speak to you about many things, he said." He shifted the cards together, and dealt out my hand.

"Marin is a very busy mage and you shouldn't distract him by discussing me." I tried to hide my worry by looking at my cards. Marin was a black mage doing specialized research that fascinated the Elder, but I found his presence unnerving in a way I could never really articulate.

"But--"

"Marin is not young people." I said more firmly. "You should stay away from him." Then, to the game, "Your draw."

* * *

I avoided anything directly magic related. I turned down another offer from the Elder -- a position of teaching white magic when it was to be opened. I left the infirmary to other, and in my opinion (if not the Elder's), more capable, white mages.

I wanted nothing to do with it.  
  
The Elder and I argued about it, as we occasionally did. It was a gift, he said, from the Crystals to be used to benefit and help everyone. As far as I was concerned, I'd done my part. Risked my neck, countless times during the Crystal War, all for the sake of those eight deities. A hero, they called me. I paid my dues, and my reward was to settle down with Cecil, have children, have a life. And then they took it violently away when Cecil was killed.   
  
I owed them for that? Hardly. The discussions usually ended with the Elder calling me bitter and selfish, and I couldn't really argue with that.  
  
I would have liked to give up the white art entirely, but the Elder reminded me, infrequently, that if any undead were found venturing past the mountains again, he would send me out. I held fast to the conviction that the first occurrence was a fluke, that there was no rogue necromancer, that the undead merely wandered further from the mountain than usual.

Of course, as always, I was wrong.

* * *

  
Galen thrived.  
  
It would be wrong of me to take any credit for this. It was more the change of environment, I think, than anything I might’ve said or done. But as the winter softened its grip on our part of the world, he gradually lost the wild animal look in his eyes, and I saw more and more of the boy he actually was. He continued to grow when I wasn't looking.   
  
While he never spoke of the town he came from, or the circumstances that drove him away of whatever family he might have had, he did speak more freely, which led to easy conversations over meals; a gradual repair of his lack of social graces.

The late winter season had an eerie sort of peace to it. Life was at a standstill -- no more could be done in the construction of the school until the ground fully thawed, so the entire village found a peaceful idleness in simply waiting. Novice mage children memorized theories and practiced what spells they could indoors, but stole time in the cold snow for play whenever adults weren’t looking.

* * *

“They’re taking me with them!” Galen was barely through the door before shouting his news. 

I vaguely hid my amusement behind a small smile, “They?”  
  
“The hunting party!” he didn’t so much as look at me, lost in a scramble through his small collection of clothing, piled at the foot of his cot in the corner, “Told me to layer up,” offered by way of explanation, muffled as he struggled to pull another shirt down over his head.  
  
I laughed and crossed the room to help him. With his head freed through the hole of the neck, his speech was more coherent, “Someone spotted game in the north of the Ordeals forest. They’re organizing a bunch of archers to track ‘em down, so we’ll have fresh meat.” The flow of words didn’t pause even as he shrugged on his jacket. The combination of cold fingers and excitement had him fumbling with the buttons, so I buttoned the garment for him, “And, and, the Elder told me I could go with them, to help carry their equipment!”  
  
His enthusiasm was infectious; it gave me no room for suspicion or concern. I only laughed and said, “Well, hurry up, or they’ll leave without you.”   
  
His smile reached from cheek to cheek, never fading even as he dashed out the door.  
  


* * *

Someone was shouting.  
  
Even in the quiet sanctuary of Mysidia’s small library, the panicked note of a man’s yell could be heard. A dozen mages, including myself, looked up from their respective books.   
  
Another shout came, still muffled by the building’s thick walls. While I couldn’t make out the words, several white garbed healers obviously understood, dropping their books and immediately starting for the door.   
  
“Someone’s been injured,” said a black mage, across the table from me, interpreting what must have been my confused expression. He closed his book, and shrugged on his cloak, “Probably the hunters.” He, too, headed outside. I grabbed my own jacket, and followed suit.   
  
Galen. Had he been hurt? I felt my own panic rise into my throat, making it suddenly difficult to breathe.  
  
There was already a gathered crowd in Mysidia’s main street. I couldn’t see anything, with so many taller than me. Unsure of what to do, I thought about doubling back, trying to find a break on the other side of the street. But the decision was taken out of my hands, when a sudden grip caught my upper arm, tugging me along.  
  
It was the Elder. His commanding shout of, “Let me through!” certainly parted the crowd, and he made his way swiftly to the center, myself in tow. A number of red mages, our hunters, stood together. Spatters of blood, shades darker than the red fabric of their station, stood out vividly on a number of cloaks, boots, and gloves.   
  
“The undead,” said one, when the Elder approached. Zane, I think his name was. “Came up on us. It was so sudden, so quick. It would have been a problem -- I mean, we’re all well trained but we were so far from the mountain, we didn’t expect it..” his words ran out, breathlessly.  
  
“No one was seriously hurt,” offered another red mage, quickly, his arm cradled against his chest. “A few scratches, nothing more. A few well placed fire spells and they were gone. It was just so. . . unusual.”   
  
“Let’s get you inside,” the Elder stepped in, a hand on Zane’s shoulder by way of guidance. His gaze found me, unexpectedly sharp, “Take Galen inside, get him warmed up,”  
  
How could I have forgotten about Galen? I turned around, looking for him, and found his drab figure. His face was withdrawn and chalk-white, his eyes distant and dead.   
  
He said nothing to me, not a word or sound, as I led him back inside. 

The Elder had a chocobo ready for me the next morning. 


	4. Chapter 4

_WANTED:_

_Rosa Farrell Harvey_

_For the MURDER_

_of our late King Cecil_

_and SABOTAGE_

_of His Majesty’s Red Wings_

_10,000 Gold Pieces Reward For Any Information_

_50,000 Gold Pieces for LIVE CAPTURE_

_(Posted throughout the Kingdom of Baron)_

* * *

The promise of spring softened the ground, and while snow still clung to the brown grass, the sticky mud beneath made the chocobo's balance unsteady. Mt. Ordeals’ shadow, visible even through the dense foliage overhead, marked a permanent fixture for north as I ventured deeper into the forest. 

  
There was an unnatural silence hanging between the trees. No birds chirped, the wind barely stirred the bare, haggard branches. The smell of rotten flesh and overturned earth grew stronger the closer I drew to the mountains. The bird beneath me fought against its reigns, not wanting to go any further.  
  
I dismounted, pulling my bow from the bird's saddle bag, and continued on foot. The distinct crack of bones sounded ahead, and I paused to nock an arrow in my bow.   
  
It was a hideous sight to happen upon -- two zombies hunched over the opened belly of a chocobo; their hands and mouths full of blood and bone shards, ripped feathers and guts. One man, one woman; their clothing threadbare and expectedly worn from the winter weather. These two were fresh, my stomach lurched to notice, their skin still blue in places where the death rot had not claimed. Distractedly, I wondered whether they had been travelers that had frozen overnight, en route to one of the small villages.  
  
I didn't hesitate. The first arrow hit its mark right on, piercing between the male zombie's eyes, then bursting into flames. The shot would have been deadly to any living creature, but a zombie didn't require the use of a brain, or any other organ, for that matter, to function. Instead, he let out a howling screech, clawing fruitlessly at fire and arrow as he tumbled to the ground.   
  
The movement and noise drew the woman's attention, the red of the chocobo's blood vivid and bright in contrast against the green and blue of her skin, and down the ragged front of her blouse. She paid no mind to her screaming and thrashing companion. She saw only me, both fresh meat and a potential threat, and started toward me.   
  
Perhaps I have been too long out of combat. The years spent in peace might have dulled my senses, made me less alert. Or, perhaps I could simply hear nothing over the incoherent cries of the male zombie. Either way, I heard nothing, nor noticed any movement behind me, as I fired a second, then third arrow into the female, effectively dropping her in the same manner as the first.  
  
Sudden, without a word of warning, pain exploded down my back with one graceful sweep of a clawed hand. A second claw followed, and before I could even draw in a breath to scream, I could already feel blood welling up through the cuts, wet against the clothing of my shirt. Then, I screamed. It was a wasted breath, though, in this frozen forest. There was no Cecil or Cain to rush to my rescue here.  
  
I didn't need to look to know this was a third zombie. The stench of rotted flesh filling my mouth and nose told me as much. Though, as an unusually elongated arm reached over me, around my shoulder and neck to drag me in closer, I vaguely recognized that this was no former human. Whether by chance or planning, the bulky muscle of its arm pressed in tight against my mouth as a result of the hold. Too late, I pulled a spell to mind, but without the benefit of speech, no such spell formed.  
  
Worse yet -- I couldn't breathe! The bow fell from my hands as I frantically clawed at the arm.  
  
I don't know how much time passed in that moment. It felt like an eternity, with hot panic rising up through my chest and into my throat. In truth, it couldn't have been more than a few seconds or so. The edges of my vision went dark, and I felt my own body's betrayal as my limbs went slack in the zombie-creature's grip.  
  
"No!" The voice was so distant, and seemed so quiet. "Let her go!" And so vaguely familiar. I should recognize that voice, I thought, though my hazy mind couldn’t identify who.  
  
The world came back to me, too suddenly, as the zombie-creature did let go. Unsteady, I stumbled to the ground, braced just barely upright by arms; lungs suddenly full of gasping breaths. I tasted cold air in one inhalation, burning flesh in another, and the clogging smell of dark and death magic in the third.  
  
Now that I could see it properly, I knew I was right about the zombie-creature: it wasn't human. Rather, some bastardized version of one. Former hands stretched out into long, sharp talons, its head lengthened into a sharp snout, its legs no longer simple limbs, but resembling the back legs of a reptile, long and scaly. I had never seen such a beast before -- it couldn't be a natural thing, could it? Either way, it was dead, the rot of its scale hide made that obvious enough.   
  
Surprisingly, it backed away from me. There was a fear in its face -- oh, but not for me! I soon realized, following the line of its gaze upward.  
  
_Galen_.  
  
There was no trace of boyish innocence in his stern, unyielding expression. He stood, legs braced apart, as if prepared for an attack, somehow looking taller than he ever had been in my presence. His mouth was moving, and in the shock of the attack, I couldn't make out what he was saying.  
  
The smell, though! I coughed through it, having difficulty breathing again. It brought a surge of memories -- of being on the battlefields of Fabul, closing the eyes of soldiers who hadn't survived Baron's attack, of my father's closed casket and struggling to understand why he wouldn't wake, of Milon's endless boasting to Golbeza, how he, Lord of the Dead and Earth, would slay Cecil once and for all.  
  
Pain still pulsed in the slashes along my spine, and that grounded me back in reality. Able to speak, this time, I murmured the words of my own familiar spell. _Cure._ I felt the healing magic rise in my hands, and the open wounds in my back close over with stretched skin -- leaving only the shed blood, sticky but cooling in the rips of fabric.  
  
"Penny? Oh, gods, Penny, I was so worried, I thought--" It was Galen's voice. I don't remember closing my eyes, but I opened them now. The strange creature was no longer the walking undead, but only a corpse, simply dead on the cold ground, the curse of undeath apparently gone. But how?   
  
Galen crouched low beside me, put a hand on my shoulder, and the world exploded again.  
  
He screamed as I did, jolting back away from me, then falling to the ground. He didn't move.  
  
It was there again, heavy and heady in the air. The death magic swirled around me, around him. I thought of Cecil, dead and buried beneath the waves of the ocean; of Tellah's sacrifice at the top of the Tower of Zot; of the magnificent explosions I was sure had claimed Cid's life. I fought my way through the tangled memories, desperately looking around us. I needed to figure out where this necromancer was hiding, where the source of the death magic came from.  
  
There was only Galen, unconscious and barely breathing, splayed out in the snow.  
  
Oh, _no._  
  
I crawled toward him, on hands and knees. Another lungful of death magic choked my breathing, and my vision swam with images of Dwarven tanks and Red Wing ships alike falling to mutual fire. Bodies burning in the fields, Baron's flag raised high in the air. I waited for it to subside, struggling for cleaner air. When I could see and breathe properly again, I reached a tentative hand out to Galen, touching his chest to check for breathing.  
  
It didn't hurt me, this time, but I was aware of the holy burning even if I didn't feel it. He didn't wake, only shrieked in wordless pain, his body twisting away from me. As an involuntary response, I felt my magic rise up in me, in both defense and defiance of the other, unholy magic that was present, even well after I jerked my hand away.  
  
Even if I wanted to disbelieve it, I couldn't deny my magic's own reaction to what was around me, to _him._  
  
I left him there on the ground, with an unheard promise to return shortly. I found my chocobo scared and trembling behind a tree, a few yards away. After a brief chase, I led the bird back. Gloving my hands properly, as to not directly contact him, I managed to get Galen up on the back of the chocobo again. It was the very same scene as the one from months ago, except, this time, I knew exactly why he unconsciously shied away from contact from me.  
  
Galen -- a necromancer. How, by the grace of the Crystals, had he managed to fall into my lap?   


* * *

By all rights, I should have gone straight to the Elder. I should have told him that I had bagged his necromancer, the very source of the havoc in the forests, so all could rest easier at night. I told myself, at the time, that I was too numb with the shock of my discovery to do much of anything, and too worried with the boy's welfare to do anything but bring him back to the dorm.

Afraid to touch him, I kept my hands gloved as I wrapped him in blankets and left him to sleep off his unconsciousness. I didn't leave the room, however. Equally afraid to see the Elder, I supposed, until I had the full truth. I waited by the bedside. And prayed.  
  
Luckily, I didn't have to wait days for him to wake this time. There was no fever to break through; merely a return to consciousness. Midnight broke across the land, a clear, crisp night; cold enough to remind the world that winter hadn't left, quite yet.  
  
His waking was marked with a painful groan, a twist of shoulders as he struggled to push away the cocoon of blankets.  
  
"Why didn't you tell me?" My voice was harsher than I intended, but I made no apology for it. The sound of it shocked him and he stiffened, sitting upright. He stared at me, blinking hard and silent. "You should have told me you were a necromancer."  
  
His expression suddenly turned angry, probably mirroring my own, "And you're the height of honesty, are you? Why the hell didn't you tell me you're a white mage, then?"   
  
The returned accusation caught me off guard. To most, concealing white magic might seem like a minor offense, especially compared to the atrocity of necromancy. But, to a necromancer? I deflated a little, losing a little of my anger. I was as much of a threat to him as he was to me.  
  
"You should have told me, Galen," I said, more quietly, "You know there have been attacks in the forests. And you knew someone would be sent to investigate, you had to know that someone would figure it out, sooner or later,"  
  
"No, no," he protested, sudden tears in his eyes -- he was blessedly more child than man in this moment, and I was grateful for it, "It's not me, Penny, I swear it. I knew someone would be sent to look, yes, after we were attacked while hunting. I knew there were zombies, but I promise you, it's not me raising them. Those were someone else's."  
  
I rose from where I sat at the hearth, crossed the room, and took a seat on the edge of the bed, "Another necromancer?"  
  
"I don't know," he rubbed his face with his palms, looking tired, "I don't know who or what is doing it, but I know it's not me."  
  
I reached for his hands, intending a gesture of comfort, but he jerked out of my grip, eyes wide with fear. Scowling, not at him but more at myself, I reached again, capturing his wrist in a tight grip. Nothing happened -- no jolt, no pain, no holy burning -- just normal human contact of my fingers around his wrist.  
  
"It hurt, so badly," he offered, by way of explanation, his eyes closed tight against the memory.   
  
"What you do is ... an unholy thing, Galen," I murmured, releasing my grip, "The magic I have, has two purposes. To heal people, and to combat the undead and the necromancers that raise them. It's meant to hurt _you_ ,"  
  
He reached for my hands, this time, encasing mine in his own grip, "Why, then and not now? It doesn't hurt."  
  
"I healed myself," I didn't struggle against his grip, simply let him hold on, "While you were... sending off that, thing, I healed myself. It was the residue of that magic, in combination with your own surfacing, that burned you. Magic is not meant to mix."   
  
He simply nodded at my explanation, letting go of my hands. He rubbed his face again, and I wondered if he was simply trying not to cry. His voice betrayed him, shaking a little as he spoke, "Will you tell the Elder, then?" his voice grew smaller, "I know it's an evil magic, Penny, but it's not something I chose. I simply am. I've tried so hard not to be, and I was doing so well. But I knew, when you left so soon after the attack, that he was sending you to look for the zombies. You, defenseless and small, with only a bow to protect you? I had to follow, I had to make sure you were okay. And then... then," he didn't finish, but looked away, not at me or anything else, his face scrunched hard.  
  
"I don't know," I answered honestly. I ruffled his hair, reminiscent of the mutual ease with which we had lived over the past two months. "They teach us that magic isn't necessarily good or evil, only its caster. But necromancy..."  
  
"I'm not evil, Penny. I'm not. I didn't mean to hurt you," he hesitated, eyes darting between me and his hands in his lap -- then, in a burst of inspiration, "I love you, you know."  
  
It broke my heart to hear it. I leaned toward him, kissing his forehead; a maternal gesture. "I know. You're the little brother I never had, Galen."  
  
He let go of my hands, deflating with a sudden sigh, but didn't say anything. He was young and foolishly infatuated with a woman who had showed him kindness. In time, his crush would turn into a sibling-like affection. I wasn't lying, though -- I did love him like a brother. I’d never had any siblings, but I imagined I might care for them the way I cared now for Galen.  
  
"Just sleep, for now. Rest up, and we'll talk in the morning," I said, rising up from the bed, "I won't tell the Elder anything. Not yet."  


* * *

  
I never did tell the Elder.  
  
He promised, and I believed him. I think he did mean it, genuinely. He had only reacted out of panic, recalling the tainted magic to draw the zombie-creature away from me. Safe, and tucked away in the village, he'd have no cause or reason to do so again. I suggested a permanent muting of his powers, but he only reacted with horror. He'd been muted temporarily before, he told me, and it left him numb and unfeeling to the world -- like a zombie, himself. He believed he had the discipline to control and suppress his budding necromancy.  
  
And I foolishly believed him.


	5. Chapter 5

_At first glance, Osmose presents itself as a perfect spell for an emergency.  The bonus is twofold: the power to drain energy from an opponent, and absorb that same energy into yourself, for your own purposes. The success rate is slim, however, often resulting in befuddlement of the caster. I caution against novice users attempting to use Osmose, and for experienced mages to only try this spell against enemies proficient in similar magic types._

-          Excerpt from Black & White: A Theory of Magic  by Rosa Farrell Harvey

* * *

 

_(During The Crystal War)_

One desperate evening on the Red Moon’s surface, our small, haggard group tried to find rest within the frigid, crystalline walls of a Lunar Cavern. Rydia shivered in her cloak, and she seemed much smaller and more of a child than she had been since the Land of the Summoned Monsters.

I sat beside her, my arm around her slim back, if only to share warmth by proximity. She leaned her head on my shoulder, her eyes closed. For a few silent minutes, I simply watched Edge attempt to strike a flint to a gathered pile of bent, black twigs, from the twisted trees that grew stunted in the caverns. For the first days of our journey on the Moon, Rydia lent her black magic to the fire-building cause, but as we trekked deeper into the Moon’s labyrinth of endless caverns, we found the need to conserve her magic, never sure of what horrible monster lurked around the next bend.

Now, she sighed, and I heard a lifetime of exhaustion in that small sound.

“Is there nothing I can do for you?” I asked. Although I wielded great magic, I could offer no cure for a lack of energy.

“No,” she replied, without opening her eyes, “And even if you could, we must conserve your magic, too. Who knows how much farther we have to go, or what we might face before the end of our journey.”

She was right, unfortunately. We had paced ourselves, venturing slowly on, Cecil insisting that he, Cain, and Edge nurse minor injuries with herbs alone; that Rydia choose her targets with careful thought; that we move cautiously and strike first; and that I use my magic as little as possible, favoring archery above spells. My arms ached with an exhaustion I had never known before.

And still, with all this conservatism, Rydia still spent herself each day, and never quite fully slept enough to ever regain what she’d lost. I saw the weariness written plainly in the tense lines of her face, even now as she rested.

“What of Osmose?” I asked softly, my voice quiet enough to not have woke her if she truly did sleep, but I knew she did not when her small body stiffened at my question, so I continued, “I know very little of Black Magic, and I know you choose to use it infrequently, but would it help you, now?”

For a long while, the only noise between us was her soft breathing, and I thought she may have actually been asleep, but she finally replied, her words slow and careful, “I have thought on it, but the more I use Osmose, the more. . . confusing it becomes.”

Curious, I prompted her, “How so?”

“It is always easier to draw energy from other mages,” She paused, her forehead wrinkling in thought, “Other _human_ mages. Osmose pulls out threads of magic, weaving them back into you. It is almost as if you have plucked a spell from their lips, so you could speak it instead. But with these creatures, I feel the shape of foreign and unknown spells in my throat. I do not fear magic or the power it wields, but this frightens me, a little.”

“You could draw from me, you know. We have more need of your magic than mine.”

Her small hand found mine, squeezing gently, “You offer too much of yourself, Rosa, as always.”

Stillness and quiet came between us, and the slow build of tiny crackling sounds from Edge’s growing fire marked the minutes that passed. As the warmth crept our way, Rydia’s tense shivering relaxed away.

Finally, I said, “I would do it for you.”

But the poor, tired girl had finally fallen asleep.

* * *

She refused my first offer, but a new creature soon presented itself, prowling out of the shadowed corners of the Lunar Cave. It was a great purple beast, like an enormous lion, with claws like a terrible bear, and a serpentine tail. Despite its immense size, it moved with great alacrity, countering all of our close counter attacks with a fierceness I had never seen from a creature before.

We were forced to a distance, and Rydia began a Quake spell that shook the whole of the cavern, bringing a great sharp stalactite down onto the creature, piercing through its whole body. It twisted in a great spasm, then gave voice to a mournful howl, until it finally went still and died.

Rydia stumbled, and I caught her by the arm, supporting most of the weight from her slight frame. “You are right,” She gasped with the words, “These creatures guard a mighty power, one I must find for myself.” Her breath came in ragged gulps, “I have only heard his name spoken in hushed, reverent whispers. I have seen hints of his name in old tomes of power.”

She gripped my arm, and steadied herself with my help, finally finding her feet. Edge and Cecil approached with concern, while Cain remained armed at the ready, in case the creature stirred again.

“Bahamut lives here.” Rydia spoke as if in prayer, her eyes closed and face upturned, “I hear his call to me. I must find him.” I heard the awe in her voice. When she opened her eyes again, she looked to Cecil, her green gaze piercing, “His power will greatly aid our quest.”

Cecil said nothing, his gray eyes somber; he only nodded. We continued deeper into the cave.

* * *

We found, and killed, three more of the behemoth beasts. I wondered if they were a pack, a family unit to guard the secrets of the cave. If I felt any pang of pity, I was forced to forget it in the desperation of each battle – it was kill or be killed. At every hesitation, Rydia urged us onward. We left their corpses cooling on the slick, black crystal cave floor.

* * *

Rydia grew more fatigued, though no less eager for our progressing quest toward Bahamut’s liar. One morning, as we broke camp, I watched her fumble with the clasp of her coat, her fingers lacking any dexterity and coordination. I walked to her, and stilled her hands with my own. My own fingers ached from endless bowstring pulls, but physical exertion is vastly different from magical.

I finished working the clasp of her cloak as I spoke, “I wish you would reconsider.”

“Bahamut?” The name was barely a breath in her throat, “You know I cannot turn back now.”

“No, no,” I said; I knelt down to finish the lacings of her boots. It was not unlike assisting a child to dress, though I don’t think Rydia would have appreciated the comparison, “I meant my offer, of using Osmose.”

Rydia said nothing as I finished tying up her boots, then stood to check the fit of the quiver at her back. Her voice sounded unsure when she finally did speak, “I would not ask it, if this were not so important.”

Cecil called for us, a gentle inquiry to ask if we were ready to continue.

Rydia smiled then, though it looked strained and unsure, “If we find Bahamut, I will need all the help you can give.”

* * *

The next day, we found the mouth of Bahamut’s inner lair. As we ventured closer to a great, massive cave opening, Rydia stopped us, her eyes wide with an emotion I could not quite describe – perhaps awe, or fear, or the humility of meeting a god.

“He is here.”

I knew what she needed. I wound my arm around hers, grasping her hand in between both of mine, “We can do this,” I murmured, low enough for Cecil, Edge, and Cain not to hear.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, my voice more firm than I actually felt. Her fear began to color my own courage, and I could not afford to lose my resolve now.

I knew Rydia was powerful; knew it in the command she held over the great beasts she conjured from another world; witnessed it in the fierce displays of ice, fire, and lightening. I felt it now, as she reached into me with gray, ethereal fingers. My heart twisted, wrenching painfully when she pulled away, and I was slammed with a sudden feeling of _loss._  Rydia sucked in a loud breath beside me and seemed taller and brighter with her renewed strength, her spine straight and shoulders back, her bright green eyes blazing.

If she had a concerned word for me, it was lost in a shout of warning from Cain.

“Incoming!”

A goliath of a dragon lumbered forward, his claws scrapping along the crystalline floor in a screeching announcement of his movement. His scales caught the reflection of the dark cavern walls, an impossible shade of black. Despite his size, he was sleek and moved as sinuously as a snake.

“So,” The dragon spoke, though I more felt the words than heard them, “You have enlisted the aid of Leviathan. But power such as his can be won without light's gift.”

He seemed to consider us for a long moment, dropping his great head lower, to consider young Rydia, who stood before him as tense a drawn bowstring. His breath came in a sudden snort, hot air blowing strongly against us, enough to ruffle hair and pick up our cloaks. His head lifted, perhaps a decision had been made?

The dragon spoke again, his words filling the cavern, reverberating in my chest, “Only the ultimate trial can determine if that most sacred force truly rests within you.” His long body stretched upward, displaying his chest in a puff, as his claws extended, digging deep into the rock floor of the cave, “The trial of I, _Bahamut_ – Dragon God of the Summons,”

“Prepare yourselves!” Rydia shouted, strength having returned to her voice; firm and full of resolve. As her warning came, the unmistakable hum of magic began to build around the dragon’s immense form.

“Rosa – reflect!” The command came from my left. Cecil stood at my side, his shining sword drawn in defense. I lowered my head, and brought my hands together in familiar casting, weaving together a shield of light. Rydia’s theft of energy hit me swiftly, however, and I found myself gasping through the spell’s pattern. I felt as if I was underwater, my words thick and slurred in my mouth. Still, the spell came slowly together, glimmering in place as I brought it over Rydia. She was unaware, caught up in her own soft chanting.

Cain leapt to the air, his spear hoisted high. Edge became a blur, using his ninja magic to step between shadows, his image flickering in illusion. Rydia’s head was lowered, mouth in her hands as she breathed life into her own spell. I felt my world dim and threaten to go dark completely, as I reached for familiar magic threads to focus and anchor myself.

Bahamut rose back on his haunches, his impressive wing span filling the entirety of the cavern. In the next breath, he would unleash his terrible dragon magic in a wave of fire breath.

Edge, Cain, and Rydia – safe.

Cecil and myself? Still exposed.

The second Reflect spell came to my hands easily, muscle memory taking over. I saw Cecil beside me -- beautiful and strange Cecil, with his silver hair and haunting eyes, his legendary sword glimmering in reflection of the magic building around us. He had always been _my_ hero, my white knight to rescue me from every terrible villain imaginable.

Except now he was the whole world’s hero.

He glimmered as the Reflect spell materialized around him. I saw everything in slow motion, the confusion on his face blossoming into horror as he realized that Bahamut’s spell was descending, and that all were protected save me. I saw his gauntleted hands move in clumsy gestures, attempting to cast. But Cecil, bless his heart, had not taken to white magic as easily as he had to his paladin’s sword, and his proficiency in the healing art had been a slow progress over the months of our journey. He would not complete the spell in time.

I turned just in time to see Bahamut’s great jaws open, and tongues of flame reach toward me. The world briefly went white. I thought I heard Rydia’s voice. Then, all was dark.

* * *

When Edge tells the story of Bahamut’s battle, he will say that Rydia, wreathed in smoke and flames, brought a crashing blaze down onto Bahamut, a spell so fierce that the dragon god immediately bowed his mighty head to her, offering the girl-summoner his services.

Rydia, however, will claim that hubris slew the mighty dragon, his own terrible spell came bouncing back at him, and _that_ brought Bahamut to ground. She was, however, content to let Edge believe what he’d like, and that perhaps it would keep him in line the next time he got fresh with her.

* * *

“Rosa?” The soft voice broke through, pulling me forward to consciousness. I came awake, suddenly, blinking through a haze. Rydia’s face swam before me, and then gradually came into focus.

“Cecil?” His name was a question, one to mean: _where is he?_ And, _is he all right?_

“Hush,” was Rydia’s reply, her fingers finding my hand with a small squeeze, “They are making camp. Lie still and I will tell you. We have won the Dragon God’s favor, and he is mine to summon.” There was an urgency in her voice, and she glanced toward Cecil, who was preoccupied with pulling the tent sides taut. Her gaze followed him, but she kept speaking, “How are you? Do you feel well?”

“I am. . .” I hesitated, to genuinely take inventory of myself. All my limbs felt solid, and while my head felt dense and heavy, but I seemed otherwise whole, “. . .tired. I am just tired.”

“A side effect of Osmose,” whispered Rydia, her voice intentionally smaller, “We will rest here until you’ve recovered. Cecil wants to back track to the surface to replenish our supplies, before we press onward to the Lunar Castle.”

I realized, quite suddenly, that I felt no burns, no blisters, no signs otherwise that I had endured Bahamut’s wrath, “I couldn’t. . . I didn’t have time to shield myself. How did I survive?”

Rydia looked back to me, and though she offered me a smile, it didn’t hide the sadness in her eyes, “Cecil believes you are clever and cast Reflect on yourself before you fainted. The truth is, I cast Reflect on you.”

It didn’t make sense, and my foggy brain attempted to muddle through the explanation. Rydia had shown no aptitude for white magic since her childhood. She didn’t speak often of the loss, only once, to say that Cecil didn’t need another white mage now that I was around, and then she had laughed.

“But. . .” I started to say.

Rydia squeezed my hand, harder this time, “I know. Another side effect of Osmose. Sometimes, I think I can remember the spells, but the words are never quite there. But when I drew from you, I knew them again. For half a moment. I thought I knew the depth of your power.” Her green eyes went distant again, not looking at Cecil, or even Edge, but somewhere far off, farther than even where the Moon had taken us, “I wondered, if I held Osmose longer, if I could keep the spells. . .” she trailed off, not finishing the thought.

Her grip on my hand was suddenly uncomfortable, too strong and too tight for her small hand.

“Rydia . . .” I said, slowly, wiggling my fingers from her grasp.

“Sorry,” she said, abruptly, the haze from her eyes gone. She let go of my hand, a frown creasing her mouth, “I am sorry. I will never ask that of you, ever again.” She smiled again, but this one was genuine and it lit up her face, “I won’t need it, now with Bahamut at my call.”

“Rosa,” Cecil’s voice came from across the camp, concern and relief mixed in his tone. Rydia stood and moved aside, making room for Cecil to kneel beside me, “My love, are you well?”

I saw Rydia’s eyes over Cecil’s head; suddenly full of worry. What of my magic worried her so?

“Yes,” I laid a hand on Cecil’s cheek, glad for his strong and steady presence, “I am better, now that you are here.”

Rydia and I did not speak of the Osmose incident until many years later, as an old woman and new mother, but that is a story for another time.

 

 

                                                          


End file.
